


choose your weapon

by aalphard



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Canon Compliant, Established Relationship, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, boyfriend shirt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-26
Updated: 2020-12-26
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:56:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,595
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28342023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aalphard/pseuds/aalphard
Summary: Ah, Miya Atsumu, indeed.Because the first thing Kiyoomi notices when he walks inside his bedroom today is Miya Atsumu, legs on display and ass dangerously close to being exposed, as he hummed and watched himself in the mirror. His hair is messy, his eyes closed and a simple, unadorned, glorious halo over his head as he sways along to a song Kiyoomi doesn’t recognize. The freckles on his neck greet him as he takes another step forward, towards the man who wears his heart on his sleeves. All Kiyoomi could see was his beauty, his singing limbs and the quick flickering of his feet as he moved to the right and to the left again, two steps back and one forward.Oh, and there’s his name. It stretches out across his back, bold white letters spelling outSakusa, spelling outMSBYand the number15on the mirror.What the fuck.or the different ways atsumu finds to (almost) give kiyoomi a heart attack.or, even, the boyfriend shirt fic no one asked for.
Relationships: Miya Atsumu/Sakusa Kiyoomi
Comments: 34
Kudos: 670





	choose your weapon

**Author's Note:**

> hi! long time no see (´꒳`)
> 
> this was based on [this tiny brainworm](https://twitter.com/aaIphard/status/1342683250599350277) i had last night and, well, let's just say i got a bit carried away. 
> 
> enjoy!

At first it was strange, the corners of his bedroom screaming his name with tiny cacti and succulents and the fairy lights he insisted they put up over his bed. Waking up to the sun itself towering over you with a lazy grin, head tilted to the side and bleached locks falling over his eyes as he sighed, _morning, Omi_ wasn’t that bad, not when the sun itself squeaked and giggled when he brought him down and buried him under the thousands of blankets they liked to sleep with. _Morning, love._ And that was also strange, greeting someone good morning with a half-asleep smile, with a hoarse voice no one else but them knew, wrapping their arms around a warm body and nestling their heads on the crook of the other’s neck because _ah, so comfortable._

His point is that living with Miya Atsumu was strange.

It had started with a match, the dizziness that usually came after winning, the world spinning under their feet and the divine smile he shot at him after Kiyoomi spiked the perfect set. They won. They’re celebrating, fingers intertwined when they were merely supposed to brush against each other in a high-five. _His eyes are beautiful_ , was the thought that crossed his mind when Atsumu smiled, a giggle escaping his lips and dripping down to the floor as he blinked at Kiyoomi. Once and then twice and then tilted his head to the side, _you alright there, Omi?_ It had started with a wince, a confused blink and a groan, the god standing before him with a golden halo over his head, the galaxies inside his eyes something Kiyoomi couldn’t even begin to comprehend. _Go out with me._

The whispers of his name and of skin against the silky sheets as he throws one arm over his waist and brings him closer. Being held by the sun, by a god, by Miya Atsumu himself brings warmth Kiyoomi never knew he needed, the first rays of sunshine after a cold, long winter night. This and this and also that, the way his hair looks in the summer sun, his face when he runs and his eyes, focused and dark, as he watches the ball’s trajectory, as his mind runs with the perfect angles and the perfect speed for a spiker to hit and score. This and this and that, the way he snuggles closer to him when he’s still asleep and how he wakes him up with a brush of his lips to Kiyoomi’s cheeks, a whisper of his name and a chaste kiss at the sides of his lips. There’s a soft tint to his smiles, the smiles only Kiyoomi gets to see, when they’re both in their underwear laughing about the ridiculous movie they’re watching, when they’re stuffing themselves with the cookies they baked and _ah_ , so many moments of happiness under his name, under his touch.

Miya Atsumu, who made space for himself in Kiyoomi’s life, in his house and his routine. He, who laughs openly as he brews coffee and drags Kiyoomi out of bed when his blankets are still so, so comfortable. He, who’s so easy to love and so hard to tame. He, who threw Kiyoomi’s entire world out of its orbit so it would orbit _him_ instead. 

It’s fun, coming home to his bad jokes and the tight hugs Kiyoomi doesn’t have within him to walk away from. They stand by the doorway for way too long, Atsumu’s arms over his shoulders and his hair tickling the skin right beneath his ear, his voice sending shivers down his spine when he says _we’re home_ to no one in particular. They walk to their bedroom and Kiyoomi watches as Atsumu flops down over their bed, fingers tapping the spot next to him in a silent invite. His heart, poor, weak, old thing, always squeezes at the sight and perhaps it had been like that ever since the first time Kiyoomi had spotted him from all the way across the net, their first collision, the first time Kiyoomi felt like a serve was anything other than a serve, the first time it felt like a challenge, a duel between the two of them. 

It’s comfortable, the smiles directed at him and the hugs in the mornings. Atsumu indulges him and allows him to sleep those extra ten or fifteen minutes, allows him to wrap his arms around his waist and bury his face in the crook of his neck, consuming him whole in those stolen moments before they have to leave their nest. His fingers have tasted the sun and the fire in a comet’s tail, his eyes have seen the pomegranate stars dipped in warm honey that drips from hazel eyes, the gentleness and raw hunger that melt against each other and _ah, Miya Atsumu._

Ah, Miya Atsumu, indeed.

Because the first thing Kiyoomi notices when he walks inside his bedroom today is Miya Atsumu, legs on display and ass dangerously close to being exposed, as he hummed and watched himself in the mirror. His hair is messy, his eyes closed and a simple, unadorned, glorious halo over his head as he sways along to a song Kiyoomi doesn’t recognize. The freckles on his neck greet him as he takes another step forward, towards the man who wears his heart on his sleeves. All Kiyoomi could see was his beauty, his singing limbs and the quick flickering of his feet as he moved to the right and to the left again, two steps back and one forward. 

Oh, and there’s his name. It stretches out across his back, bold white letters spelling out _Sakusa_ , spelling out _MSBY_ and the number _15_ on the mirror. 

What the fuck.

“What,” Kiyoomi mumbles before he can gulp the words down, before his brain can process the scene in front of him. “What the fuck are you wearing.”

Atsumu turns around with a knowing grin, the thousands of lines where other smiles had been poking fun at Kiyoomi when his dimples start to show, small and sweet as he tilts his head to the side and crosses his arms in front of the _15_ over his chest. “Just trying it on,” he whispers, tongue poking out as he twirls, as he giggles and takes a step towards him. _Oh, heavens, is he naked?_ “What’cha think, Omi? Does yer jersey look good on me?”

He was watching him closely, reading his face over and over, a challenge written all over his face, his teeth sinking down on his bottom lip so hard it was white. There’s a line in his forehead that showed only when he was concentrating, the cogs in his brain coming up with the perfect speed-trajectory-strength for a set, the concentration of a god directed towards him, towards the things he couldn’t bring himself to say, the things Atsumu knew he hid under thousands of layers, frozen in spring, frozen in summer, the artificial barriers he couldn’t walk through. 

_It does_ , he wants to say. _Good is an understatement. You look fantastic._

His fingers tremble, his throat itches and Kiyoomi thinks he’s about to pass out from how hard his heart is throbbing inside his chest. _Fuck, fuck, fuck._ Atsumu stands there, legs bare and jersey covering up to the top of his thighs, dangerously close to his crotch, dangerously _dangerous_ to Kiyoomi’s heart, poor thing, his mind running in circles because _fuck,_ who knew Miya Atsumu could pull something like this? When he takes a step forward, Kiyoomi instinctively takes a step back, his body hitting the wall with a soft _thud_ , his nose scrunching up and eyebrows drifting down in what couldn’t be described as anything other than a frown.

 _You look amazing. You’re the prettiest person I have ever seen. What’s gotten into you? What if someone else came in here? Are you really naked under that? Why did you decide to wear my jersey if our jerseys are the same? Did you know you look so_ fucking _hot with my name written on your back? Can we make that official? You, you, you…_

“You’re an idiot,” he chokes out.

Atsumu howls with laughter, shaking his head and squinting at him. “Geez, Omi. Here I was thinkin’ boyfriend shirts made everything better. Don’t ya think I look good? Wouldn’t ya like to know what I look like under it?”

_I already know that._

“You’re an idiot,” he repeats. Atsumu snorts, taking another step forward, and this time Kiyoomi doesn’t have anywhere to run to, his back glued to the wall, his knees weak and throat dry. _Fuck, fuck, fuck._ “What’s gotten into you?”

There’s a mischievous grin tugging at his lips and Kiyoomi thinks he’s about to faint when Atsumu takes yet another step, when he presses his palms to his chest and breathes heavily against his chin. _Fuck of all fucks,_ he’s going to die today, isn’t he? “Mm,” Atsumu hums, pressing chaste kisses to the skin on his neck, nuzzling him and letting a soft chuckle escape his lips when Kiyoomi sighs. “D’ya like it?”

_Fuck, yes._

“Why are you wearing it?”

Another hum, another grin. “Doesn’t it look good on me?”

_Oh, heavens, this is too much for his poor heart to handle._

“It does,” he admits, his voice hoarse and choked and weird and fuck, Kiyoomi doesn’t even care. “It looks great on you. You look amazing.”

… _with my last name written on your back_ , Kiyoomi doesn’t say.

Atsumu looks like he understood, though, because his cheeks are suddenly redder than they were merely five seconds ago and his smile looks softer, less menacing. He wraps his arms around Kiyoomi’s shoulders, pressing their chests against each other and _oh, fuck_ , the jersey slids up a bit and Kiyoomi thinks he’s going to die, die, die, because what the fuck, what the fuck, what the actual fuck. Atsumu is chuckling, head tilted to the side as Kiyoomi wraps his arms around his waist, as he holds him close, close, close, as his fingers intertwine with the soft cloth of the jersey and his eyes unfocus, incapable of keeping themselves sane when _Miya Atsumu, half-naked,_ presents himself so openly like this.

Fucking boyfriend shirts… 

“I thought we could take a day off,” he whispers against Kiyoomi’s neck, his lips warm and soft against his skin. “And, I dunno, just stay in bed all day? We can order takeout and I’ll even let ya do whatever ya want with me.”

Fuck.

He’s humming as he presses a trail of soft kisses all over his neck, over his jaw and his chin, staring up at Kiyoomi with the most innocent eyes he’s ever seen in his life, a contrast that makes his head spiral down in a whirlpool of emotions he can’t even begin to unravel. Atsumu is naked, so very naked, his whole body pressed against Kiyoomi’s in a way that couldn’t be described as anything other than an invitation, that little shit. Yet, he looks up like a lost child, like his words aren’t making all the blood in his body rush down, down, down, like his mind isn’t screaming at him, like his tongue isn’t dying to taste everything he is and everything Kiyoomi still hasn’t figured out about him.

His eyes almost sparkle when Kiyoomi gulps, an unspoken challenge. The hunger in his eyes, for Kiyoomi to agree to a duel, for him to envelop him in a hug, to drag his teeth along his jawline, along his neck and down his chest, for him to kiss him breathless and make him forget his own name, makes a fire rise inside his chest, his body nothing more than a shrine dedicated to the worship of the solar deity standing in front of him, choking him with words and the promise of release. His face, smile-lined, and his eyes tiny as he giggled, as the skin at the corners of his eyes crinkled when Kiyoomi sighed against his neck. 

He kisses him, slow and tender, and moves towards the bed without hesitation, eyes closed and hands playing with the cloth over his skin and the hair that falls over his forehead. They bump against each other, they laugh and sigh, their eyes meeting for half a second and the smiles they’ve catered for each other finally show their true selves. Kiyoomi knows how pleasure looks like on him, knows the arch of his back and the frown that accompanies it, knows how he mewls and how different he looks when he’s the one feasting instead of being the feast. The groans and the whispers of his name, the hands cupping his cheeks as he presses one, two, three kisses to the tip of his nose, to his cheeks and his jaw, purposely avoiding his lips just because he’s an asshole and he _can_ . The giggles that sometime find their way back into the bubble surrounding them because _can you believe we’re doing this, you look so adorable right now, so fucking hot._

Atsumu huffs when his back hits the mattress, when Kiyoomi climbs on top of him and devours his lips and his neck and presses his arms to the sheets. He’s gasping when Kiyoomi finally lets him go, when he whispers _you’re an idiot, you’re an idiot, you’re an idiot_ over and over again, his heart one step away from exploding in a thousand colors and sounds and Atsumu laughs, nods and sighs. Kiyoomi watches him, watches the curves of his lips and the whimpers he tries to muffle, the way his jersey looks a bit too big over his shoulders, showing freckled, glowing skin as a challenge Kiyoomi can’t help but accept, dipping his head down and kissing them one by one until Atsumu is a mess of giggles and whimpers and shaky gasps.

He looks _good,_ completely at his mercy, eyes half-lidded and a lazy smile on his face.

“You’re an idiot,” Kiyoomi repeats.

“Mm,” Atsumu nods, his fingers sliding up to play with stubborn curls. “So are you.”

He is. They are.

Maybe a minute passed, maybe ten, maybe an hour or two, but when Kiyoomi comes to, all he hears is Miya Atsumu, _fucking Miya Atsumu,_ groaning and whimpering as they melt against each other, skin sticky with sweat and who knows what else, and _shit,_ he’ll need to wash his jersey after this. Atsumu lets out breathy ah, ah, ahs every few seconds, his mouth hanging open, his nails digging into Kiyoomi’s forearms and he doesn’t even have it within him to care, hissing through the pain, scraping his teeth over the exposed skin of his neck and his shoulders and devouring him whole like he urged him to do.

It’s strange, still, how well they fit into each other’s arms, into each other’s lives. Kiyoomi isn’t complaining, not when Atsumu looks up at him and smiles, not when he wraps his arms around his shoulders and brings him down for another kiss and then another and another one, not when he sighs contently on the crook of his neck and giggles softly when Kiyoomi pokes his sides. _We need to get you cleaned up, love, come on._

It’s strange, how Miya Atsumu, setter for the national team and MSBY Black Jackals, melts against Kiyoomi’s body and hums softly when he’s picked up. He giggles and blinks up lazily at him, a sleepy, satisfied smile painted over his lips, _I like it when ya call me love._

This time, Kiyoomi almost gets an aneurysm.

**Author's Note:**

> you're free to come yell at/with me on [twitter](https://www.twitter.com/aaIphard) (´꒳`)


End file.
